Chapter Nine Ayleth
Chapter Nine
Ayleth
My blood roils as I stalk through the halls, rage and humiliation scalding my cheeks.
Claim her right to the throne. Margaret’s words wheel like crows in my mind.
And not just the throne.
My throne.
Malum snaps inside me, the shadows leaping and diving in my wake.
How could I have been so careless? I assumed that, because of Margaret’s distance, the duchess wasn’t a threat.
I accepted Blodwyn’s letters at face value, never once imagining that the princess might be deceiving me.
Might be hatching her own schemes with her duplicitous aunt.
Failed, that old voice whispers. You’ve failed again.
“Get out,” I bark at the servants as I storm into my chambers.
They scamper off and I slam the doors behind them, then march into my bedchamber. Nettle lifts her head and meows a greeting from where she’s curled on my bed, but I ignore her and head straight for my mirror.
“Callen!”
I yank the curtain back. The imprisoned king’s face fills the glass.
“Oh, hello. How did things go with my sister?” His grin tells me that he is perfectly aware of what occurred.
“Did you know what they were planning?” I demand.
“You mean the trials?” Callen lifts his eyebrows. “No. But it is genius. I’m rather proud, actually. A bold move. Exactly the sort of strategy I would devise.”
“And that’s no wonder, is it? When Margaret is your twin. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Is that important? One sister is very much like another. It doesn’t matter to me when they were born.” He pauses. “Though I am older. Don’t listen to her if she claims otherwise.”
“You could have warned me that she—”
“What? That she is a lying, manipulative viper? I did warn you of precisely that. Repeatedly. It’s not my fault that you chose to ignore my counsel.”
Damn him. But much as I am loath to admit it, Callen is right.
I only have myself to blame for this mess.
I dismissed Callen’s stories as amusing anecdotes from their childhood.
Even admired Margaret for bullying him. And now she’s here to bully me.
I stalk over to a sideboard and pour myself a glass of wine. Weston did not order enough.
“Just tell me how to get out of this.”
“Out?” Callen laughs. “If the council has agreed to the trials, there’s no going back.”
“What about the actual challenges?” I press. “Can’t Blodwyn fail them?”
“Only if she’s completely inept,” Callen replies. “These days, the whole thing is ceremonial. The challenges are designed so that the claimant will succeed. The risk of humiliation is too great otherwise.”
And even if the challenges weren’t ceremonial, I have no doubt that Margaret has been spending the last years preparing Blodwyn for whatever the council might throw at her. My shadows dart around me, feeding off my rising anxiety.
“There is one way you could salvage this matter,” Callen says, thoughtful. “After all, should Blodwyn prevail in the trials, she’d merely be regent. I’m still the king.”
“Barely,” I comment, pouring out another glass of wine. “And what does that have to do with anything?”
“If I were to make a miraculous recovery, none of this would matter.”
I frown, pacing back and forth in front of the fire.
It would be simple enough for me to wake Callen’s shell of a body.
The mirror’s spell would compel him to obey me.
He could order his meddling sister—and even Blodwyn—back to Darryn.
But it may not be so straightforward. The months after I took the king’s heart quickly taught me why Ignatius picked servants as his minions.
Concealing the mirror-sheen of Callen’s eyes was easily accomplished with the right potion.
At first, at least. But, with so much attention on the king, it was nearly impossible to disguise the changes in his behavior.
Even Weston noticed. Whispers of madness were soon slithering through court.
And a mad king is almost as useless as a dead one.
“It won’t work,” I say. “They’d claim you’re not in your right mind.”
He smiles at me, all teeth. “Not if it was the real me.”
“What are you—”
“Let me out of this prison,” he says. “It will solve all your problems.”
I snort a laugh. Is that what he was getting at?
“And create about a hundred others,” I argue. “Besides, your heart is bound. Even if I wanted to release you, which I don’t, you can’t survive without the glass.”
“You believe yourself a clever witch,” he says, twisting the compliment. “I imagine that you could devise a way. And then we could get rid of Margaret together. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Oh yes.” I roll my eyes. “Right up until you arrest me again.”
Nettle meows her agreement, her tail swishing.
“No, no,” Callen insists. “We understand each other now.”
“Understand? You and I are nothing alike.”
He laughs, low in his throat. “Let me assure you, wife, we are exactly the same.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Oh no? How many witches have you killed?”
“I don’t kill them.”
“Perhaps not outright,” he allows. “But you leave them wishing they were dead. And how many villages have you gutted with that abominable power of yours? How many Followers have been felled by your command?”
I recall what I’d seen on the way to the Mines. The half-starved young girl with the accusing gaze. That old thorn of guilt stings in my conscience.
She is not your concern, the shadows whisper.
“They did it to themselves,” I insist. “They deserved it, all of them.”
“What a coincidence,” Callen remarks. “That’s precisely what I used to say about witches.”
Rage crackles in my wrists. “You are never leaving that mirror. Even if there were a way to reverse the spell, I would rather fling myself upon a pyre than do it.”
“Careful, wife,” Callen sneers. “The trials won’t last forever. In a few weeks’ time, that might be exactly what happens.”
A log in the fire collapses.
You will burn, Mother’s warning rears its head.
From what I’ve observed thus far, Blodwyn may light the flames herself.
—
By dinner, the Great Hall hums with chatter and speculation regarding Blodwyn’s announcement, the court—as ever—eager for another excuse to dance and drink.
Eager for a new queen, that small voice prods at me.
I drown it in a swallow of wine, which isn’t a good idea, considering my empty stomach.
But seeing as this is their welcome dinner, we can’t start eating until Margaret and Blodwyn arrive.
I suspect they’re being late on purpose, just to make us wait.
From the direction of the mirrors, I swear that I can detect Callen’s laughter.
Weston has wasted no time in beginning his promised entertainments.
Music plays from the upper-story gallery.
The Lord of Misrule and his entourage are masked and dancing down the aisles.
But I can take no pleasure in the festivity.
I’ve spent the last hours pacing my chambers and wracking my brain for a solution to my current predicament, but I’ve only tangled myself in more knots.
And I can feel my control over this situation slipping away with each minute.
“I don’t understand,” Joan says, “why insist on the trials now? They never hinted about doing so in their letters? Not even Blodwyn?”
“She wrote to me of archery and riding,” I say, signaling to the servants to refill my glass. “Not staging a coup.”
“It’s not exactly a coup,” Joan reasons. “The princess is the heir.”
“Margaret isn’t,” I reply, irritated. “The duchess is the one behind all of this. She poisoned Blodwyn against me. Did you see the way the princess was looking at me in the courtyard? It was worse in the council chamber.”
“You don’t think…” Joan halts, then leans closer and drops her voice. “Could they know? About…”
She trails off, but I guess her meaning. About me.
“No,” I say, as much to myself as to Joan. “If they did, I doubt they would have left Margaret’s army behind.”
At least, that’s what I’ve told myself since the council meeting. Joan nods, accepting the answer, but I see the doubt written on her expression. The same doubt churning in my own mind.
The heralds blast their horns, diverting our attention to the front of the hall.
“Finally,” I mutter.
A storm of hushed chatter erupts as Blodwyn enters.
But if the attention bothers her, she doesn’t show it.
The princess’s face is a mask of stoicism.
Even her gown is the color of tempered steel, like she’s wearing armor.
Margaret, however, is the complete opposite.
The duchess sails through the doors like she’s leading her own parade, all smiles and waves.
She’s dressed in white, the fabric studded with tiny pearls and glass beads, so that she sparkles with each movement.
Every eye in the room is drawn to her, like moths to a flame.
“What a beauty,” I hear someone remark.
“Certainly looks regal.”
A true queen, that voice in my mind jeers.
“Our apologies for the delay,” Margaret says in the least apologetic manner possible once she reaches the High Table. “It was a bit of a challenge to settle into my rooms. They’re so quaint.”
The duchess’s suite once belonged to Marion, Callen’s former mistress. It’s one of the largest, and most lavish, in the palace. But I ignore Margaret’s barb and plaster on a smile.
“What about your chambers?” I ask Blodwyn. “Is everything well?”
It should be. I took great pains to have Blodwyn’s rooms freshened and her menagerie cleaned. All her animals were well attended in her absence. But Blodwyn merely shrugs.
“Well enough.”
With that, she moves to take her place at the table. Given her rank, it’s the one beside mine. But Blodwyn eyes the chair like it’s a snake and then chooses the next one down, leaving Margaret to sit between us. Wonderful.
“She’ll come around,” Joan murmurs as we take our own places.
I very much doubt that and signal for more wine.